


Dancing Lessons

by youremyqueen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dancing, F/F, Female Relationships, Femslash, Kink Meme, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Playful Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:22:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youremyqueen/pseuds/youremyqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommen is a lovely boy, no doubt about it, but it's still difficult for Margaery to dance with someone so much smaller than herself - never mind fuck him. Sansa, on the other hand, is just about Margaery's size, and very well-suited to both of those purposes.</p><p>Written for the asoiaf/got kink meme, prompt was: first time sansa takes control/initiates sex. on table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing Lessons

Tommen is a lovely boy, no doubt about it, but it's still difficult for Margaery to dance with someone so much smaller than herself - never mind fuck him. Sansa, on the other hand, is just about Margaery's size, and very well-suited to both of those purposes.

Margaery curls her hand around the other girl's waist, grip firm enough to make a point without leaving a bruise. The music from tonight's feast - having been hosted for little else than to boost the city's morale, and having failed most grievously - flows from down the long, stone hallway. There are goldcloaks around, as there are always goldcloaks around, but not one of them dares do a single thing to stop the Queen and her favorite Lady from slipping out early.

Sansa smiles, mouth curling coyly, and pulls Margaery towards her tower. Margaery pulls back.

"Not yet," she says, then nods to one of the Red Keep's many disused studies. "This way."

Sansa's smile drops a little, but she doesn't argue. She rarely, if ever, argues with anything Margaery asks of her. Instead, she lets herself be pulled into the room and grabbed by the hips, as Margaery angles them against her own. Her eyes drop closed, body going lax and it's more or less a sure thing that if Margaery were to push her down across the aged desk in the corner and climb on top of her, Sansa would have very little to say against it.

So, naturally, Margaery does the exact opposite.

Letting Sansa's hips go, she slides her fingers out of the pale material of her dress, instead looping them around her lower back.

"What - " Sansa starts, but Margaery's smirk answers any questions she might have had. Her tone changes from natural confusion to simple exasperation when she says, "What is it?"

If possible, Margaery's smirk grows, and she shrugs daintily. "It's just," she says, nodding in the general direction of the continuing music, "there's a perfectly good harpist that we'd be putting to waste if we didn't at least - " Margaery tugs on Sansa, spinning her a little, and Sansa allows herself to be tugged - "dance a bit."

And the thing about sweet Sansa, is that she's always absolutely thrilled to do whatever it is that Margaery likes, so when she wraps her fingers around Margaery's own hips and pulls her to a stop, it's - well, it's more than a little bit of a surprise.

"And," she begins, seeming to work up the courage, "what if I don't want to dance?"

Margaery's not completely sure what's happening, but whatever it is, it's certainly terribly interesting. "Don't want to dance?" she gasps, feigning a different sort of shock than she feels. "Why Sansa, a lady always says 'yes' when asked to dance." She makes sure to put a delicious sort of emphasis on _lady_ , her lips curling into an even more pronounced smirk.

Keeping in tonight's new vein, Sansa doesn't let go, doesn't back down, doesn't give a coy little curtsey and a _'yes, Your Grace.'_ Rather, she tightens her grip on Margaery's body, pushing enough to get the Queen stumbling, suddenly feeling the edge of the desk hitting the back of her thighs.

"Oh?" Sansa asks, and Margaery can nearly detect a smirk to rival her own. "And what does a lady say to this?"

Before Margaery can manage to ask what exactly _this_ is, it's demonstrated quite clearly to her. Sansa leans her head forward, ducking close enough to press her lips, firm and pink and lovely, to Margery's mouth. The kiss is soft, but there's enough of a tongue peeking out to slide along the seam of Margaery's lips, making her gasp breathily against Sansa. She's nearly forgotten all about dancing, or harps, or the dust that's surely getting all over her by the time they pull apart.

She stares at Sansa. Because maybe this is not alright, maybe this sort of behavior should be reprimanded, maybe Margaery should be reclaiming her queenly authority right this moment. Maybe she should be angry.

Instead, she just tips her head back and laughs - merrily, _giddily_ \- because she's know idea what a lady would say to that, but her preferred response would definitely be something along the lines of, _'More, please.'_

Sansa seems to pick that up from the look she gives her, and takes it as a cue to push Margaery up onto the desk and slip in between her legs. She, lightly but still demandingly, slides Margaery's thighs apart, running her fingers along them and sending lovely little sparks through the skin there. Once she reaches the top, she only hesitates a moment before slipping a hand beneath Margaery's smallclothes. Her fingers are small and ridiculously slender, but cool to the touch, making Margaery's spine shiver and head spin when they slide against her.

Margaery's not sure at what point she falls onto her elbows, lower back resting against the desk and head tipped back - but she really doesn't much care, gasping and squirming as she is. It occurs to her to try and return the touch, and she reaches to slide a hand between Sansa's own legs, but the other girl is having none of it, and uses her unoccupied hand to grab Margaery's wrist and hold it flat above her head.

The wriggling of Margaery's hips has gotten nearly ridiculous by the time Sansa pulls her hand away and simply climbs on top of her, straddling her lap and moving her mouth to press against her neck. Margaery just parts her legs further, just lets her have whatever she wants, and Sansa takes it as if she's the one who holds Margaery down and makes her come on a routine basis - instead of the other way around.

There's a lot more grinding and grabbing and whispering of unintelligible possibly-sweet, possibly-dirty things into one another's ears, before Margaery's hips snap off rhythm and her back arches, angling her even closer to Sansa, before she collapses. Sansa manages to rub herself against Margaery's thigh a few more times, then comes as well, with a sharp gasp and a hand wrapped in Margaery's hair.

She rests her head against her breast once it's over, puffing into the soft scent of skin and silks, as Margaery drags a hand through the messy orange curls that fan out from atop her head. There's naught but the sound of heavy breathing and the autumn winds whistling in through the open window. The feast appears to have died down somewhat, from the lack of music.

"It seems we've wasted a perfectly good harpist," Sansa says, and Margaery can feel her smile against the skin of her chest.

"Nonsense," she replies, continuing to play with Sansa's hair. "He made lovely background noise."

Sansa chokes a little on her laughter at that, curling her fingers into the material of Margaery's dress and sighing lightly. "He did, at that."


End file.
